


Inoubliable

by KaneNogami



Category: Kamen Rider Gaim
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 07:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15529227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaneNogami/pseuds/KaneNogami
Summary: Sometimes, running away is the right choice, as long as it has a purpose other than throwing one self into a brick wall.Step by step, they are learning, figuring out who they are.Coward, traitor, terrible brother and ex-prince.Words can be turned into something better though.Same for their lives.





	1. Street violence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Birthday fic for my fantastic friend Sky! Wishing you the best and hoping you'll like this gift.
> 
> Also, Peco is a nickname in this, like Micchi. I made up a name for him (Hirohisa), which he uses for half of the fic. I hope it won't be too confusing.

         He leaves before the sun has settled in, the town still drowsy and unmoving. Cars and people are sparse as he makes his way towards the train station, unsure of where he's meant to go. Picking a direction randomly has never been his thing. He would rather craft a careful plan for each move, although he fears the result would be the same as before. There isn't much to salvage behind him anyway, pieces and bits of his memory he'd rather not keep. Perhaps he should go as far as he can, without allowing himself to step back.

Second chances are acceptable, until they turn into a third or fourth one.

Then it's a pathetic habit.

Exhaustion weights heavily on his shoulders, forcing his whole body to keep a low profile. If he lifts his eyes towards the sky, then surely the gentle sun would punish him further by stealing his sight away. He's starting to get sick of invasive thoughts feeding on his misery. When is this endless loop meant to end? There is no miraculous trick to get better. Instead, Mitsuzane has to convince himself living is the sole solution.

Sharp eyes have turned unfocused a long time ago. It leads him to be slow as he buys a ticket, fingers lingering against the screen longer than necessary. Running away should be harder, filled with regrets and the urge to cry in his parents' arms. Except they are long gone, and he isn't certain anyone would miss him. That's a cruel sentence considering how his brother has been doing nothing but trying for a while. It's not enough, Mitsuzane is allowed to reject that!

Love is not leaving for another country nor it has anything to do with forgiving without a second thought.

Murder, even failed, remains a crime. Something absurd and meaningless.

 

(Can't get anyone back now.)

 

If he is unable to forgive himself, why should anyone do it? He picks a place whose name he isn't familiar with, out of spite against the world and himself at the same time.

At eighteen, Kureshima Mitsuzane vanishes.

 

(He'd like to believe someone cares.)

 

 

         Phone calls in the middle of the night have the tendency to turn his life upside down. What's the point of trying to contact him, the runaway— _coward_ since he has voiced out loud, countless times, his desire to remain on his own. That's why Peco—Hirohisa could simply ignore the screen lighting up once again. It basks his room until he can barely see, palms having to press against his face while the boy swear. There isn't any relief in being the troublemaker, the one people call only to complain about. That's an exaggeration, his way to sever ties. He has always been brash and unforgiving. That's not so bad now he doesn't have anyone by his side. The world fell once, everyone getting over it.

 

(He's mad at them, too.)

 

How can they diss everything under the pretense of healing? It hasn't taught them a thing, if the medical bills piling up on his desk are anything to go by. They only create different problems, calling them solutions and hoping no one will notice.

 

One hand grabs the phone, roughly, awaiting for the familiar name displayed on the screen.

He renamed them countless times only to go back to the old ones.

There is hunger in his blood, for revenge and screams, yet it doesn't mean much if he aims it towards everyone.

 

_Shapur_ , he reads while sitting up, body protesting the effort.

That's odd. Another forgotten memory.

He picks up, voice laced with sleep and barely registering the sudden outburst on the end of the line.

 

Urg, people are such a pain.

 

 

         There is no reprieve found in never stopping, Mitsuzane discovers it faster than anticipated. Sleepless nights, or merely a couple of hours, in cheap hotels before moving farther towards an absent goal. His hair has turned into a mess matching with everything else. Purposes aren't cheap nor he is allowed to find one. Instead, the teenager is stuck in an endless repetition of noisy nights and endless days. Cities are easier, filled with enough music and clubs to cover the sound of his voice. It's simple to waste what he has left in arcades, eating cheap food from street vendors— everything's tasteless anyway.

He becomes a night creature, following the shadows rather than attempting to control them. Manipulating others had always been a piece of cake to him, right? A mere game for a foolish child.

Mitsuzane buys headphones, drowning the world until music manages to be louder than everything else. A temporary fix better than nothing. Colliding with strangers on the street, pushing back when they try to start a fight.

Somehow, bruises are not akin to salvation, he cannot become a martyr once again.

The addiction is stronger nonetheless. Growing in its bones until he is the one to step too close, glassy eyes glaring at the stars as he falls.

 

(He falls over and over and over and **over again** —)

 

 

         Business is a broad term filled with everything from services to straight up thievery. Or murder. Hirohisa (Peco's boring nickname he is done with) has no intention to ever take a life, disgusted by the sheer amount of power and lack of restraints his own friends showed during their little war. Still, there isn't much he has to complain about when he is fine with stealing and lying. Dishonesty is merely a tool, something he is able to use to his convenience. That's mostly to assist others, ensure the ones unable to fight won't get abused by the system. Yet, that kind of job is hard to accept.

Loud when he has to defend his safety, silent as a mouse not to be caught while setting documents on fire in a dim office empty in the middle of the night. Kind of messed up, to accept dangerous tasks. Perhaps it's his revenge. A way to prove Hirohisa is able to fight in his own way rather than being useless and forgotten by his own friends.

 

(Who had to organize Kaito's funerals by himself, hm? Identifying a body without help, his other friend in the middle of a surgery meant to save his life.

He has little to forgive.)

 

The lighter is heavy between his fingers, carrying the weight of his mistakes. The smoke rises slowly, engulfing the whole desk. He doesn't put it out, finding some sort of relief in staying there, watching everything being burned away.

 

 

         Life has been a mess for a while, he realizes one morning, having to pick himself up from an alley. Falling asleep is less complicated when someone knocks you out. At least his phone is still there, safe from harm a pocket he sewed himself inside his jacket. Money, however, is gone for good. That's fine, he can live by throwing away his family's wealth. Built on corpses and lies, how fitting for Mitsuzane. The lingering smell of food coming from the street is enough for him to cover his mouth with the back of one hand. The mere idea of putting anything inside his body right now is revolting.

As soon as he reaches the hotel, his body slips in the shower. Rubbing red marks until they turn even darker, water burning his skin until he can barely breathe, that's how he feels alive these days. Perhaps he ought to stop getting involved into so many fights. Soon, someone is going to ask them to join a gang and he'll have to destroy it from inside. Only to become the new leader, crushing everyone in his way.

 

Laughter is quick to come out of his throat at the thought.

He hasn't changed in the slightest, still the same damn monster.

 

          Guests aren't meant to remain forever, if not they would be roommates. Shapur is somewhere between the two, crashing into the tiny flat without a purpose one night. Tears have turned his eyes red. Alongside trembling hands, it's a pathetic sight. One Hirohisa doesn't feel like rejecting. Piece by piece, the story unfolds in the corner. Sitting on the thin futon, beers in hands, they allow words to come out. Many are sharp as razors from the youngest, and heartbreaking on the other side.

Even fairy tales have bitter endings, Hirohisa supposes. Shapur was allowed to leave his country alive, with the promise of never returning. Rejected by his sole family, robbed from his younger sibling and the lie he had believed to be affection. Rough and unfair, he tells him while the other falls silent.

In return, Hirohisa offers the tragic fate of Shura, in a coma on a hospital bed without anyone to visit. Bills having to been paid by someone. A responsibility he accepted while understanding the consequences although everyone believes otherwise. They are so quick to call their ex-friend hopeless, rejecting the way they are the one who caused this mess by following Kaito years prior.

Hell, even Hirohisa's relation with his sister was heavily damaged by this choice. For months, he refused to acknowledge her existence, fine with believing he had found a suitable replacement under the name of friendship.

 

“You can stay for a while,” he suggests. Not a promise, better than nothing.

 

That night, they get drunk and weep over their misery for a long time.

Hirohisa pretends he doesn't kiss the other because he is a mirror of someone he lost. It's a relief when Shapur claims not to remember the following morning.

 

 

         When there isn't any blood dripping on the ground and the adrenaline controlling his brain, band-aids are enough to keep him focused. He tugs on them, almost removing the protection only to press them back against the skin. Sometimes they are colorful, meant for children whom still cry and tug on their parents' sleeve when they fall. Cynical, Mitsuzane pretends his tears dried a long time ago. He puts more bandages on his bruises, pink and blue against the corner of his lips or his eyebrow. Hands are his favorites though. Because he can count them, feel how the fabric moves alongside his fingers as he curls them.

Such addiction is dangerous, bound to drag him down later. Mitsuzane pretends he doesn't mind, no matter how crushing this permanent loneliness is. Sometimes, when his foot slips on the ground, he imagines someone grabbing his wrist at the least second. Only to crash in front of a faceless stranger who doesn't waste time before hitting again. His knees are painted in purple, bruises turning into flowers.

 

In another life, Mitsuzane would have called them a masterpiece.

There, he's merely tired.

 

One day, right before a fist breaks his jaw, someone tugs him backwards and he forgets how to breathe.

His savior smells like smoke and gasoline, burn scar beginning on the wrist and ending on the back of his hand.

That's all he notes as they run through the streets, avoiding strangers and voices calling out to them.

 

 

         Tongue twisted in his mouth, Hirohisa presses his back against the nearest wall to catch his breath. Above them, the night sky is starless, pollution hiding what humans don't deserve in the first place. Rescuing some random kid wasn't truly his goal for the night, merely the right thing to do. For someone who loathes justice and everything it entails to the extend he does, the teenager is certainly a fool. Always trying to assist when he is able to no matter the consequences. By his side, the boy is already sitting on the floor. The band-aids on his fingers are childish, covered with cats and dogs, all far happier than they should be considering they are meant to cover injuries.

That's a shitty moment, the kind he'd like to run away from. Not that he can, obviously. The fragile flame coming from his new best friend the lighter is, at least, comforting in these tiring times. Unhealthy, to some extend, not that it matters.

 

“Seriously,” he starts, accusatory, “don't get involved with gang members you fucknut.”

 

“Shut up, what do you know. Are you one, _mighty savior_?”

 

That's it, that guy is already pissing him off. There is an unsettling urge to set him on fire, which would be disappointing as Hirohisa is fairly against mindless violence still. He crouches down nonetheless, hand grabbing the kid' shirt to force him to lift his head, the other one holding his weapon.

 

Only to bark a laugh at the familiar (terrifying) face.

Oh, Micchi.

 

 

        A fateful meeting, between a couple of trashcans and the flickering neon light in a corner. Fitting for strangers like them. The term is far from belonging in their vernacular. Breaking promises and shattering bonds cannot remove people from their memory. Stuck in front of his eyes, the flashbacks are disgusting. Mitsuzane doesn't get the privilege of basking in self-hatred, as the lighter is suddenly shut off, removed from the vicinity. His lungs don't comply with the air allowed to go back to them, opting to go mad with the weight of his actions instead. Getting back on his feet is an impossible task when his body is barely responding, throwing distress signals without any regard for logic.

 

“Peco—”

 

“Hirohisa.”

 

Another nickname, hm? He should have predicted it was merely a mask, akin to _Micchi_. Still, for the other to behave as some kind of hero— There is irony in the way the second beat rider has never forgiven anyone or anything, going as far as standing against his own comrades to voice it. Mitsuzane lacks a similar honesty. Nails start to push a band-aid off the back of his hand, enjoying the sensation against the skin.

 

“I'd rather do without your assistance,” venom invades his mouth, pressing against his tongue until it turns painful, “Street fights are none of your concern.”

 

“Thanks for saving me Hirohisa, you're my hero,” the voice is high pitched on purpose, mocking him, “No problem Micchi.”

 

Insufferable. Little has changed, except for the scar on the other and his own bruises. By pressing a palm against the ground, Mitsuzane manages to get back on his feet. The word spins, almost dragging him into an endless dance. He wouldn't give Hirohisa the pleasure of collapsing in front of him.

 

“Mitsuzane.”

 

“Back to our roots,” the oldest pauses, hand on his hip as he leans on the wall behind him, “lying and the whole package deal. Are you truly in a gang?” Hirohisa's voice drops just enough to show concern, taking Mitsuzane by surprise.

 

(Why would anyone—)

 

“Obviously not.” No need to justify his actions. After all, he is almost an adult, free to unleash another reign of terror upon the world.

 

If he walks away now, without looking back, Mitsuzane can put an end to this masquerade.

His legs, however, are certainly enjoying to betray him, as they abruptly decide to stop working, the world fading into darkness.

 

          In retrospect, Hirohisa should have let him face plant against the ground. Consequences would have a pain to deal with, as the oldest has already enough bruises to patch up. At least, Mitsuzane seems to have a vague—merely existent—sense of self-preservation towards his hands. The rest, however, is a different story. Patches of colors cover his body, akin to a white canvas damaged without a purpose. It's infuriating, for some reason. This kind of self-punishment isn't healthy, nor it alleviates the weight of his actions. Playing the victim has always suited the youngest.

Removing clothing is going too far, not that Hirohisa has never been one to mind his own foolishness. Brash and hasty to make mistakes, isn't it how he has always lived? Hands filled with manic energy, the teenager patches what ought to be before it gets infected. At least, Micchi is still wearing his pants. He wouldn't have touched those. There is a line between helpful and creepy.

 

Ah, he wonders if his old friend is aware of its existence.

Probably not~

 

Scissors feel heavy in his hand, and he contemplates what he has done to the guy' shirt. Hey, there was no other way to remove it, it's fine. Mitsuzane will have to wear one of his, if he wants to. Hirohisa has no room to leave, considering the size of his flat, opting to cook in the small corner where he has a stove. From time to time, his eyes dart towards the passed out kid on the futon.

 

First scissors, then a knife.

At some point, his reverie is going to turn into straight up murder, which would be unfortunate.

 

Cutting vegetables in silence, Hirohisa has too much time to himself. Thoughts are quick to turn sour, with memories he'd rather avoid. By that point, he should know better than saving every lost cause he meets. Ah, Azami is certainly to blame for that. It's her specialty, to return home with strangers bearing a shit-eating grin. And now, her little sibling is following in her footsteps, much to his dismay.

Back then, as a young teenager, there was resentment towards this situation. Absent parents and a sister going around adopting strays rather than caring for him. Still, Hirohisa wanted nothing more than to be included in her plans. Learning to assist as she did, dancing alongside her group to ease the misery in everyone's gaze.

 

Zack, seeking an absolution for no crime in particular, willing to face the whole world to obtain it.

Shura, broken to the point of rage and destruction.

 

For a moment, his hand refuses to go on, as he remembers his promise to never hurt anyone ever again. And yet he resorted to violence, desperate to win against Kaito. That wasn't a fair fight in the slightest. Nor they should have left Azami and Shura behind like they did.

 

True strength, hm?

Ironic coming from Baron's leader, king of unfairness and a profound refusal of change.

 

Easy to attack the ones unable to defend themselves any longer, hm?

 

 

     Death has surely forgotten about his existence once more, or else he wouldn't wake up with his body on fire. Each time, Mitsuzane discovers brand new parts of himself, as if they had grown out of nowhere. Appendages coming from everywhere, ripping away bones and skin. Perhaps one day, he'll wake up with broken wings, damaged to the point of being removed by his own hands.

 

Nonetheless, the ache wouldn't cease.

Mitsuzane is not naive enough to believe he can be cured.

 

Sitting up in a chore, the lack of shirt immediately bothers him. Memories flash in front of his eyes as he stares at his host. There is no need to pretend to care! The words should come out, aggressive and sharp, as they always are. Instead, a bowl of food and chopsticks are left in front of him, hitting against the floor harder than necessary.

 

“Eat, fucker.”

 

Peco remains unable to address him without adding at least one insult in the sentence, marvelous. Crossing his legs on the futon (and thanking the fact he is still wearing pants), Mitsuzane pretends he suddenly can't hear before digging in.

 

The meal is simple, yet the noodles and vegetables are fresh.

Honestly, it's the best thing he has eaten in days, which is heartbreaking.

 

“Forgot how to say thanks?”

 

He glares, exhaustion mixed with the sudden urge to stab Hiro's with the chopsticks. As if he had asked to be rescued in the first place. The fight would have turned out in his favor! Or at least, not ended in death.

Probably.

 

Mitsuzane isn't certain to care that much.

 

“Why did you assist me?”

 

“Excellent question!” Taking a seat in front of him, Hirohisa presses his chin against the back of his hand, adopting a fake contemplative expression. Trying to get on his nerves once more. He has always been excellent at such games. “You passed out in front of me. My body acted on his own, that's all.”

 

Hirohisa will surely regret having reached out to his nemesis. Even if it was only for one night. People like Mitsuzane can only bring misfortune, twisting reality to their liking. He should finish his meal and leave, before the conversation gets to turn into an argument. Against the shortest, he doubts to win, especially in this state.

The mess is not as important inside the tiny flat as he would have feared. Peco—Hirohisa doesn't seem to own much. The television is probably older than either of them, to the point Mitsuzane wonders if it can work at all.

Little plants are lined on top of it, in various states of decay. Apparently, the other isn't talented with living beings more than he is.

 

“So, you sleeping there tonight.”

 

“At least, attempt to make it sound akin to a question, rather than deciding for me.”

 

“Can't bother.”

 

Tch. Mitsuzane won't allow him the pleasure of an answer, opting to walk towards what's certainly the bathroom instead. The world turns blank for one second, until he splashes cold water against his face. It drips against the skin, crashing against his bare torso. Bandages and band-aids are bothersome, when he can see them. There is a reason why he loathes his reflection, the constant reminder of his brother. The one he can't reach, even after all this time.

Once back in the room, he notes how Hirohisa is laying on a second futon which barely fits. The coffee table had to be pushed in the kitchen corner to gain space. Such proximity with a person who hates his guts should be more troublesome. If only he wasn't past the point of exhaustion already. With a groan, Mitsuzane climbs under the covers, only removing pants once his legs are out of sight.

 

“Prude,” Hiro calls him out, wearing only his boxers without any trace of shame on his face.

 

“We can't all be exhibitionists.”

 

If they both wake up without having strangled each other in their sleep tomorrow, it'll be a miracle, for sure.

 

 

         The first time Hirohisa found himself helping a complete stranger, money wasn't even involved. He didn't want to seek justice, only to make things fair. People shouldn't be beat up under the pretense they don't fit enough, right? Still, fighting has never been his forte. That's why he crafted a plan with the help of the high school victim, to go against their bullies. What a mess it had been, to see them reduced to tears when faced with videos and audio recordings of their actions. Not so mighty any longer~

Easy to forget the fact that, a long time ago, the one mocking others and stepping on their dreams was Peco. Bully himself, albeit not for long. Too busy with Baron to damage the rest. School has always been a chore, a memory Hirohisa cannot regret no matter how he remembers the disappointment in Azami's eyes. What could he tell to the perfect child when he was only the troublesome one? In the end, their parents didn't care for either of them, too strict yet completely absent.

 

Hirohisa wonders if he learned to make excuses for his own mistakes by imitating them.

Isn't it how kids do? Playing pretend with their parents' lies, over and over.

 

In that regard, Mitsuzane isn't lucky either. Not that it alleviates what he has done to everyone (mostly to Hirohisa).

The urge to kick the brat in the ribs is high. Although he doesn't fancy taking him to the clinic after. Hence how he decides to allow Mitsuzane to sleep a little more. It's already noon, which means way too early for Hirohisa. He groans under the shower, trying to keep himself remotely awake enough not to drown.

Work cannot wait, especially as it gives him an excuse to abandon the sleeping guy in the flat. At least, he has the decency to leave a note including his phone number and some food.

 

In the evening, when Hirohisa returns, the place is empty.

It's a relief.

 

 

         The gritty streets have lost any semblance of color a long time ago. Everything is gray, different shades from apathy to void. Mitsuzane misses the spotlight at times, only to remind himself that everything is meant to be a punishment. He can't cling to what he has shattered with his own hands. Instead, his eyes cling to any dull color he finds, struggling to tell if they truly exist or if they are only a trick caused by his mind. The green of the public phone, the purple neon light in front of a bar. Sometimes, Mitsuzane wants to cradle the colors in his hands, shoving them inside his body to bring it to life. A foolish dream, one he shouldn't cling to that badly.

His encounter with Hirohisa was unfortunate. Albeit not as tragic as it could have been. More melancholy and bitterness than real anger towards each other. It's a little odd to believe they managed to share a place like this, even for a single night. A part of Mitsuzane regrets adding the phone number to his contacts, although he lacks the strength to erase it.

 

It's his second contact, after than nice delivery place down the street.

He should go there tonight, rather than eating whatever he finds at the store.

 

To do a little better, if only for one night. The teenager can't tell if he has to blame Hirohisa's meal for this or the fact the other helped him when he had no reason to, over than ties severed years prior.

 

 

         He hopes for the wrong endings, unable to stop doing so. Mitsuzane erasing his number, Shura never waking up and Shapur vanishing. Cruel wishes he has to fight against without having the strength to do so. Running away is cowardly, yet Zawame took everything away from them. There was a war, no matter how adults call it a _conflict_ , countless deaths and mistakes which caused them. He is upset beyond reason even nowadays. Each year, there is a pathetic ceremony, meant to honor the fallen. Letters had no destination, thus they turned into emails he erases without opening them. Hirohisa doesn't feel like a soldier nor a civilian. He was powerless and thrown into the fire line nonetheless. That's unfair. And what's worse is how no one ever acknowledged the damage caused to them, the dancers without weapons.

 

Chucky used to text often, fear in her words as she couldn't rest without being afraid for her younger siblings and herself. She packed a backpack every evening, with enough supplies for a couple of days, leaving it by her desk just in case. He wonders if she has managed to go past the trauma, or if it still lingers in a corner of her mind.

Hirohisa stopped replying at some point. Telling himself he would send a message the following day. Then it turned into a week, and two. After a while, there was no reason to contact her any longer.

 

Now, his cellphone is filled with messages from complete strangers, begging for assistance.

There is only relief found in ensuring they can get home safely in the end, no joy or pride. It's difficult to live on people's misery, to Hirohisa. He has more to do with a private investigator or a juvenile delinquent than a hero.

 

Better than ending up dead for a battle he doesn't care about.

 

 

        The weight against his bones is akin to his own book of retribution. Invisible poison pouring down his veins until he is unable to open his eyes or to function. Mitsuzane loathes the day, when people stare for too long, hoping to make him ashamed. As if he was in need of more hatred. Still, there is a fear, hidden in a corner of his stomach, of no one caring if he dies alone. Wouldn't his brother be bothered, to some extend? Where is he? Still in America or having returned as a consequence for his disappearance?

Foolish hope. He should have thrown the last remains of that away, scattering them in the wind. It would be less complicated than craving anything positive. Perhaps he could go out though, buy some pudding cup and eat it outside. If only to remind himself he used to enjoy things, no matter how small. Isn't it better than simply awaiting for each day to end?

 

Bruises will fade if he ignores them.

Why can't his heart follow a similar pattern?

 

Laying on his bed, he grabs his phone without giving the gesture a second thought.

He wants to talk to Peco—Hirohisa—or whoever he has decided to be.

 

 

         The world has always been quick to go to utter shit. Hirohisa wonders why he is surprised when it happens. Perhaps he has started to get cocky, after too many successes. On the bright side, this time around it's a knife mark rather than a burn. These are a real pain and he doubts his wrist will ever make a full recovery. Nonetheless, the strong scent of blood sticking to his body is not appreciated. Spitting on the ground doesn't do anything to improve the situation either.

The sudden buzzing in his pocket is not enough to startle him, nor it stops Hirohisa from letting out a couple of insults upon reading the name on the screen. What is that bastard doing?

 

“Don't you have like— something fun to do? Getting beat up for example?”

 

“Your rudeness still knows no bound, Hirohisa.”

 

“Of course, what did you expect from me?” The words come out slightly slurred, as the deep cut on his cheek doesn't allow much conversation. And rubbing it only spreads blood across his face.

 

There is a pause on the other side of the line, enough for Hirohisa to hear the other inhaling sharply.

 

“Do you happen to be busy?”

 

“Like, if you wanted to ask me on a—fuck it hurts— date, might the wrong moment...”

 

The indignant shrieking is amusing, to say the least. Naive rich kids make good targets when one's bored. Wouldn't that bastard professor say that? Urg, Hirohisa is glad the guy's dead, no matter how awful it sounds.

In a rare moment of awareness, Mitsuzane manages to regain his composure to ask a displeasing question.

 

“Why did you say 'it hurts'? What have you gotten into this time?”

 

“This time?! Excuse you, but I'm not the one who gets his ass into problems bigger than him.”

 

“Are you sure? Considering your vertical disadvantage, I would have expected—”

 

“Bastard you're like three centimeters taller than me! Shut up.

Also I got stabbed in the face. Well not stabbed. But there was a knife yeah… Kinda.”

 

“Are you STUPID?!”

 

With his tone, Micchi's answering fairly well without assistance. Hirohisa could be offended about that if he wasn't stuck on the whole vertical disadvantage business. He isn't even short in comparison to Kouta. That's so unfair.

 

 

          So much for eating pudding with someone he tried to kill only once. Instead, Mitsuzane has to play the nurse, cleaning a wound which doesn't belong to him. His body is probably jealous of the attention he is giving to the oldest. Putting a clean bandage against the damaged skin will stop it from getting infected for now, at least. Or so he hopes. Hirohisa is such a moron, getting dragged into fights involving weapons.

 

Mitsuzane is perfectly aware of his own flaws in that regard but he is an armored rider.

Or he _could_ go back to being one at least.

 

A much better protection than whatever Hirohisa has for himself. His shit-eating grin and habit of antagonizing his enemies are certainly not strong points.

 

Going back to the apartment wasn't part of the plan though. Now he is stuck there as the other is remaining silent, not keen on thanking him while he swallows painkillers with a glass of water.

 

( _You're not a savior, Mitsuzane._

_Don't expect to be treated like one._ )

 

“I had perfect control over the situation.”

 

“Indeed I can see that,” he snarls, fighting the urge to sigh loudly. Why are they so similar? “How did you get involved in such mess?”

 

“Job gone wrong, that's all.” Leaning against the wall, Hirohisa tugs at the corner of his bandages, mirroring Mitsuzane's gesture with his hands. “Intimidation isn't very useful when the person in front of you has a weapon. But he harassed a girl he works with to the point she's too afraid of going out at night so she wants me to teach him a lesson,” he explains without pausing to breathe.

 

That sounds… Oddly fair.

A little brutal, for sure. Yet Mitsuzane is not one to complain about these things, not after manipulating people like marionettes, making them dancing with strings as sharp as razorblades. The bandage is getting red, since Hirohisa can't keep his fingers off, and he finds himself staring at the color spreading until a wave of nausea goes through his whole body.

 

“Then why aren't you working with others?” A gang, that's certainly how such partnership would be called on the streets. He doubts, when he witnesses the sudden dark gleam flashing in Hirohisa's gaze, that's company he is looking for in the first place.

 

“I don't trust them. You should guess this stuff better.”

 

As if he was trying to psychoanalyze the other. Mitsuzane has not enough strength for such games (childish ones) any longer. He should buy pudding and lock himself in the hotel room, erasing everything else. It's what everyone has done with him, once he was too much of traitor to be forgiven.

 

“Why did you call by the way?”

 

Ah. Replying he cannot remember wouldn't be well-received. In spite of acting like a loud brat, Hirohisa is certainly observant and clever. Or else he wouldn't have been so quick to find a way to rig up their little games back then.

 

Palm spread against his cheek, Mitsuzane takes a moment to tug at his mind, finding an appropriate reply.

 

“I was interested in going out to eat. I figured you might have been bored too,” his tone is just detached enough to sound nonchalant. A nice contrast with the urge to rip that damn bloody bandage off Hirohisa's face to get rid of that pure white getting tainted.

 

“Yeah, sounds a lot like a date,” Hiro interjects, leaning forward.

It's laughter Mitsuzane hears, spreading through the oldest and spreading in the room. A strained sound, not used often any longer. Yet, it's genuine, albeit with a hint of mockery.

 

He might deserve it.

 

“It is not—”

 

“You patched me up, so why not. But I hope you still have that money of yours, since I'm broke lately.”

 

Mitsuzane cannot help but think it sounds like a constant situation. Whatever, he probably has enough to pay for two cups of pudding. And drinks, probably.

Getting more pudding sounds a little more enticing though.

 

 

          It could be a date, for all they bicker while eating on a bench. Hirohisa horrified that his rival's favorite treat is considered an acceptable meal whereas Mitsuzane threatens to steal his cup to make him shut up.

It's a great moment. One where the world doesn't crush them further.

 

Micchi doesn't have nightmare that night.

(He still checks under his bed for a dead body, just in case.)


	2. Royalty

         Bars are not fitting for princes, or ex-ones. Where does the difference lie? Does it matter at all? Shapur doubts it. He is too busy ordering the most beautiful cocktails the bartender can think of each time he visits. He has jobs, forgetting about them to take fresh starts over and over. Everything's exciting and brand new until it turns dull and he has to run away.

He fears to ground himself somewhere only to get thrown away. The first time was painful enough. In his wallet, there is the picture of a brother he'll never get to know. He wonders how much years he'll need to forget about him too.

 

The part who wants to fight for his rights always clashes with the one who begs for fun and innocence.

 

Tonight his drink is green, shimmering under the dim lights. He could stare at it for hours, fingers dancing against the edge of the glass.

He never sits at tables, too far away from the world. Isolation is hard to bear, during the nights where he is desperately seeking connection. Soon, he'll visit Hirohisa again. Going back to Zawame would be too much, filled with a grand tour of all the graves left by cruelty during his absence. He'd rather pretend everything's alright by sticking around there.

 

“Do you intend to stare at your drink all night long?” The voice is raspy, with something softer at the end. An awkward attempt at a joke. Shapur notes the sunglasses folded on the bar, followed by the opaque liquid in the stranger's glass.

 

“Well, I'm trying to memorize its color first.”

 

For a second, he wonders if his tone was too petulant, considering the shock painted on the man's tired face. He doesn't wish to be treated like a clumsy child, that's all! Shapur's as adult as anyone else of the same age. Merely more sheltered while growing up, with a hint of danger behind his pout.

 

( _Drugging people or kidnapping them is a character's flaw_ , Hirohisa told him once.)

 

“Are you alright?” He frowns, enough to show he cares. That's such an odd concept, to pay attention to others beyond wanting to put a smile on their faces to be loved. “Sir?”

 

“May I know your name?”

 

“Shapur,” he is still thinking of a surname. After all, his family probably doesn't want him to run around pretending he still matters to them. He should have asked one of his friends to bear their name, although it's a responsibility few would share, “You?”

 

“Takatora,” the stranger offers, emptying his glass in one go. “You reminded me of someone.”

 

“It happens sometimes.”

 

If he frowns enough, or part his hair differently, there is a glimpse of Kumon Kaito in his body. One Shapur found pleasant years prior. Nowadays, he is seeking his own identity rather than stealing someone's else.

 

“Do you want to taste it?” He pushes his colorful glass towards the man, grin finding its way on his lips. Nights are supposed to be his escape, not a way to hear pitiful stories from damaged people. He wants to have fun!

 

And Shapur has a habit of getting what he wants.

 

 

         When his doctor told him to take it easy, Takatora guesses he meant with work and not sleeping with random people met in bars. It's in no way a habit of his. Nor he would blame the alcohol. He'd call this an opportunity, a chance to take his mind away from the brother he has been running after for the past months. He isn't certain, as the eldest, that it's what his sibling wants. Mitsuzane could be perfectly safe without his guidance, as he has been for most of his life.

Berating one self has little benefits. He has other matters to intend. Such as the young man with him. It's a chance he wasn't close to banana rider. Or else the night would have been awkward.

Fresh out of the shower, he sits on the edge of the bed. His hair has gotten long, and his usual business attire has been disregarded to blend in more easily, even if he is not truly relaxed. It's a form of therapy, to push away expectations and live for himself. Although Takatora is unable to completely cut himself off his duty. After all, there is much left to be repaired. Some buildings, mostly people Zawame has lost without a second chance.

 

Consequences are the price you pay for trying to play God.

Old friends are buried deep, ashes scattered across the wind, yet it still feels like they are going to knock on his door at night, asking for an explanation.

 

He has to justify himself enough these days. Giving up part of his fortune only serves to appease the richest, greedy hands and empty hearts feeding on whatever he throws at them. Money will be gone at some point anyway, invested in fixing what he broke indirectly.

Fingers run against his jaw, fierce more than experienced. Shapur is quite eager to test boundaries, from what he has witnessed during the night. Also prone to get annoyed and complain if things don't go his way. An exhausting attitude, for the oldest who felt like he has gone through a century of mistakes. Otherwise, the night was pleasant.

 

The day is not bad either, as lips press against his.

 

They talked, at some point. Hushed voices and frown on their faces.

He learned about the bond the other had with Kumon Kaito, in addition to sharing a quite similar face.

 

(That detail is still bothering Takatora.

But digging into the past can cause infinite damage he doesn't want to face right now.)

 

“Are you going back to Zawame City?”

 

“If I can avoid it, not for the moment. My brother might decide to contact me, eventually.”

 

Wishful thinking. Mitsuzane is past the rebellious phase, only trying to figure out his identity outside of the mold Takatora shaped so harshly for him.

 

“Will we meet again?” For what he understood, Shapur is unable to keep a job, or to obey orders for too long without getting bored. An unfitting attitude for a young adult no matter his odd upbringing.

 

“I see no reason to believe otherwise. We can exchange phone numbers if you want.”

 

“I already did that! I added myself as Shapur, with a little heart at the end, see?”

 

Proudly brandishing Takatora's phone, the youngest has a bright smile on his face, as if his actions weren't questionable. Ah, he must be talented at attracting troublesome people. Not that he minds right now. Having some company over than nagging secretaries is a relief, if he is honest with himself.

 

 

          White lies taste as sweets as the most delicious cake. _Of course I don't mind working late! I love teamwork! I'm completely devoted to my job!_

 

Ah, these words are meant to gain trust, rather than to break it down later. Nonetheless, that's the sole result he seems to get lately. Shapur is trying harder than people give him credit for and that's such a pain to be treated like he can't take care of himself. He is perfectly able to! It's just a chore, that's all. He dreams of red and black, dancing on a stage and then crashing down in front of everyone, tears welling up until everything's a blur.

One day, he'd like to dance, learn how he can make his body useful for something other than baking. What's the difference between talent and passion? Shapur has never learned it, leaving him unsure of each step he takes.

 

While he knows it's wrong, his feet still follow where he shouldn't go, enjoying a game existing only for him. Stalking, he should call it. That's the name of what he is doing.

On the bright side, Takatora is quick to catch him red-handed, awaiting at the corner of the street, hand grabbing his wrist.

 

“That's an inappropriate way to show interest,” he states, long hair falling in front of his eyes. His face is filled with lines of worry no one can ease anymore.

 

Shapur smiles, perhaps to apologize.

He should know better.

But he doesn't.

 

“How am I supposed to get close to you then?”

 

Sending texts is so hard, leaving him embarrassed while he lays on his bed at night. He has countless things to say, yet none sounds interesting enough.

 

“You ought to show me, as I lack an answer.”

 

Oh, it sounds like a dare. Another pleasant game with Takatora. He laces their fingers together, ignoring offended gazes and hushed words. The oldest wears three rings on his right hand, pink, black and yellow. What a curious detail, colors who don't even match.

 

“Let's go enjoy ourselves!”

 

That's not a date, nor the first time was one either. Shapur like to romanticize love, picturing it like an endless fairy tale in no need of a happy ever after. Takatora is probably above such games, looking for the ending right after opening the book. It's fine. Even if the youngest can't see the line between friendship and something more clearly, they can certainly spend the day together.

 

 

        He has lost too much to keep count of the casualties. A morbid thing to say, without a doubt. He has to remember it from time to time, to heal. Otherwise, he would keep on making lists in his mind, trying to account for every civilians he wasn't able to rescue from their fate. He checks his phone out of habit, fearing a missed call from his sibling. Leaving him alone can't cause harm this time, or rather it's a necessary step towards recovery for both of them.

There is something pitiful in having to keep his distances with his younger brother when their lack of communication already caused so much damage. With a small sigh, he wonders how the night will end. A storm has engulfed the town as a whole, leaving them hiding inside. Shapur, unlike his assumptions, didn't drag him to eat sweets, opting for a whole tour of his favorite places around there instead. A small park, a crepe vendor, and a place where street performers dance until dawn. The last one was—

Difficult to say the least.

At twenty-eight, he isn't sure his body could keep with their moves any longer. Not that he has ever been a dancer in the first place. The problem is not even based on his age. No, it's the endless therapy he had to go through after his _accident._

 

( _Attempted murder-suicide_ , he'd say.)

 

Sitting on the bed, he stares at the rain hitting the window without a halt. His muscles feel sore from the long walk, begging for rest. Takatora cannot afford to linger around for too long though. That's not his home, merely a passing point.

 

“The only person from Zawame I still talk too—outside of you of course—is Hirohisa. Peco if you prefer.”

 

“I am afraid I am not acquainted with this person. A beat rider, I presume?”

 

“Ex-Baron member,” the 'ex' appears to be important, considering the emphasis Shapur uses.

 

“I admit I never had much interest in watching the teams.”

 

“And what about tonight? Was it pleasant enough?”

 

“I suppose.”

 

The answer is enough to paint on grin on Shapur's lips. Sitting in front of him on the bed, the youngest is busy writing down his latest recipe, adding little drawings all around the instructions.

 

“He told me there's someone else though. From Zawame I mean. Mi—”

 

“Mitsuzane?” The name escapes his lips with too much hope all at once.

 

“Almost? Micchi.”

 

The amount of pure irony in this confession, added to the fact his sibling is not as far as he feared, is difficult to swallow. Sure, he ended there following leads, guided by the blind desire to be reunited with his sibling. Still, hearing the news is a little too much, just enough for old scars to tug at his skin and bones.

 

“Same person, hm?” Shapur asks while pressing his head against Takatora' shoulder. He is soft, fluffy chestnut hair tickling his neck. “The younger brother you told me about?”

 

“I'm relieved to learn he's fine.”

 

“You're upset though, right?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He is still the older brother. The one who wants peace and order, rather than chaos and screams. A shame the second is more likely to happen than the first in their family. He has one though, a sibling he truly loves, rather than Shapur alone in the world because adults decided for him.

 

“It's fine, to be angry. I feel the same way sometimes. But I got to talk it out, to get as mad as I wanted in front of my parents before they got rid of me. That's relief, to stand up for yourself, even if it's only once.”

 

“Thank you, Shapur.”

 

If only things were that simple as letting his emotions out.

 

 

         A ceremony is held in Zawame City that day. Another apology, a tribute to the loss the town will mourn for a while. Humans are quick to forget, brushing the past aside once it's not convenient to remember any longer. Shapur would rather walk all around the world without pausing for too long. Never getting stuck in one place would be lonely though. Well, his life has been brighten up by Takatora lately. Sharp cheekbones, body damaged at the edges.

The older man is by his side as they stop in front of the televisions flashing in the store window. Without the guest of honor, Kureshima himself, the show is a little bland. The person is talking is certainly a random official, barely important enough to have the privilege of talking to the crowd.

 

“I don't fancy his speech,” he admits, glancing towards Takatora's hand. Grabbing it would be too much for sure. They have been hanging out for the past weeks, meeting when they have enough time. That's not difficult with Shapur losing another job. Or rather he left without being able to feel any semblance of interest towards the place.

 

Something must be wrong with him.

 

“He's directing his words towards the cameras rather than the citizens. You won't be surprised to learn few people asked to replace me when I announced I wouldn't be there.”

 

Makes sense, considering the long-lasting impact of the invasion. Zawame was cut-off for months, a fact Shapur learned about months later, while packing his suitcase to go back to Japan. Although he was born there, regaining citizenship is going to be a hassle. At least he has a temporary visa for now.

 

“You can't carry everything by yourself. It would be too much.”

 

That's enough burden for one individual. Takatora has already scars for a lifetime, no need to add to that. In the same way Shapur refuses to lose friends and family a second time. Leaving was a painful experience, born from a need rather than a choice. His father would have ended up going back on his promise, out of distrust. He couldn't stay alongside the ones he trusted or they would have been dragged in his mess.

 

The young man is seeking the strength Kaito seemed so fond of,

without aiming for a similar ending.

 

“Let's go,” palm opens, the oldest offers his hand. An invitation rather than grabbing it by himself.

 

Shapur grins, lacing their fingers together.

Much better than moping around.

 

“Let's take your mind out of this~” He suggests without any activity in mind. At worst, they can walk aimlessly around there, right? Allowing the dark clouds to shield them from the sun and mischievous gods hiding on another planets.

 

 

          Street performers are captivating, at least to the youngest. For Takatora, who has to sit down after standing for too long, the feeling is different. A hint of bitterness in his gaze. Dancers and singers alternate on stages, their bodies following a rhythm he wouldn't be able to endure. Perhaps he is getting old, finding the beat too loud against his ears and most outfits tasteless.

Shapur is greedy, trying to capture as much as he can in his mind. No doubt he'd try to imitate these people once back in his room, jumping around without much organization.

Endearing, somehow.

 

“They accept anyone, you know,” the youngest teases during a break, lifting Takatora's hand to stare at the rings. “You always wear them.”

 

“They represent a memory. Neither sad or pleasant. I had friends who didn't survive this war. No matter their choices, forgetting would be a cruel punishment on my part.”

 

“Hm, I like the colors. What about performing with me?”

 

“Not tonight.”

 

“Next week? Next month?”

 

“Your hubris will be your downfall one day, Shapur. You seek goals you cannot reach.”

 

“Oh, I intend on proving I'm right, Takatora. If I don't aim higher, I won't get anywhere at all!”

 

Coming from someone who keeps on fleeing his problems, it's ironic. He comprehends the weight behind such foolish desire though. The other needs to make his own choices. Some will be wrong and yet that's how one can learn.

 

“Be convincing, then.”

 

Lips approach his own, seeking permission as he is slowly learning to do, before pressing until they are both out of breath, cheeks slightly flushed.

 

Convincing indeed.

 

 

        Shapur starts dozen of projects at once, never finishing any. His mind wanders, getting tangled in details until he is suffocating. That's difficult! Everything is. From handing his resume to showing up for work every morning. He has too much to deal with, from a broken heart (his family has erased him from existence) to this choreography he can't figure out.

Takatora made a deal with him, one including a therapist if he danced by his side. That's fair, yet that's not! If only dancing could cure everything, then their lives wouldn't be what they are. Sadness will drag them down, even more if they pretend to be happy. He is though, with the oldest. Three months after their meeting Shapur has taken a strong liking to the man meant to leave a long time ago. Supposed to trap himself at work or in an empty manor carrying the sin of his family.

 

No one should have to be used by their relatives.

He is mad at Takatora's brother, for what he has done.

 

Another confession in the middle of the night, waiting for a bus to take them home after a long day. Coping is acceptable, until they have nothing else to do. He'd like to work, without being able to do so. Healing is a process, with phases he has never heard about. Some mornings as Shapur frowns at his reflection all he can see is Kaito staring right back at him.

Dancing is tedious when his body refuses to follow the beat. Sometimes, the oldest gets out of breath, bones aching inside to the point he has to relent for a while. It's impressive they are not giving up. Out of pride, without a doubt. Pushing themselves to be what people believe they are unable to accomplish. Each day, performing turns into a challenge they can't wait to crush.

They waltz together in the hotel room when they don't feel like practicing enough. Clumsy moves they have been forced to learn growing up. Hands brushing against clothing until they feel like closing the distance with a kiss. Expensive suits are long gone, replaced with whatever they deem fit. A little more comfortable, freeing them as they are nobodies walking together than heir and prince.

There are countless secrets they cannot bear to look into further. Mostly about their families and what has been done in their name. Shapur thinks about looking for his birth family, only to decide he has no need for the truth yet.

 

Perhaps one day.

 

(He pictures himself as Kaito's long lost twin once or twice.

It's painful, as it would mean not having anyone left at all—)

 

 

          This is not their stage. It'll never be. They acknowledge it before even stepping forward. At twenty-two and twenty-eight, they are among the oldest. College and hard work are meant to be their sole goal as soon as they reach adulthood. For Takatora, who has never gotten the luxury of freedom until Zawame was in shambles, it's a big deal. Something he can't escape. That's why he smiles at the crowd, proud of who he has become. The expression is a bit smug, fitting for someone like him. Shapur hides his excitation rather well in spite of the gleam in his gaze.

 

Their stage name is _Royalty_.

 

A bit insolent, putting themselves above everyone else when they are beginners. Their song is short, elegant at the beginning, turning more aggressive as it goes by. While Shapur is clumsy and Takatora still enduring the remnants of a war it won't be enough for them to back down.

At the end, out of breath, the pair stares at the world under the feet. Being supported in spite of the countless flaws in their style is—

 

“Impressive,” someone shouts at them, crossing their arms on the front of the stage. The grin is familiar only to Shapur, quick to jump down—Takatora fearing a fall which doesn't happen— to greet his friend.

 

“Hey!” A pause. “Hirohisa. Did you like it? Weren't we shining stars?”

 

“Hm, it's not so bad, for newcomers.”

 

“Are you still a dancer?” Takatora inquires, getting down slowly.

 

“I'm afraid not. Too much work, you know. I still watch sometimes.”

 

That's the boy—young man— his brother is acquainted with, no doubt about it. Loud and overconfident to a fault, the oldest is able to tell that much. Not automatically a bad thing. After all, he hangs out with Shapur. Lifting his head he spots a familiar shadow leaning against a wall before vanishing into a nearby street.

 

Ah, so that's where _he_ was.

 

“I presume Mitsuzane did not appreciate the show.”

 

“He called you an embarrassment, the usual stuff. I don't see why, you're not too bad for an old man.”

 

Frowning will only deepen the lines on his face. Takatora has to remind himself of that fact to avoid giving the kid a death glare. Ah, wouldn't go well with the more relaxed attitude he tries to pick up lately. Pretty difficult when he has to organize conference calls with Zawame City on a weekly basis to ensure they do not blow everything up.

Letting go of that would be a mistake, albeit—

There are moments where it seems to be the better solution for his mental health.

 

“I'd rather being an embarrassment than for my younger brother to treat me like a glass statue,” he muses out loud, reminded of how distant and ashamed his sibling was after he woke up. Always silent, unsure of what he was allowed to do or say. It's almost a relief to be past those days. Nowadays, they have a slim chance to build something new.

 

Or rather they could, if Mitsuzane didn't keep on running away.

Hard to condemn him when Takatora is not behaving differently.

Chasing after ghosts is a family habit.

Hirohisa abandons them eventually, leaving them walking home in silence. Honestly, Takatora is unsure he'll be able to walk a lot the following day, considering the way the world keeps going blank for a couple of seconds.

He doesn't mind much, even if sweat has turned cold against his back. Shapur complains, loudly, about his feet being sore.

 

“Are you sleeping over?” He asks on an impulse, aware they should do better than hotel rooms and suitcases never opened.

 

“I thought you would never ask. I'd rather spend my whole life with you than be on my own. Wouldn't it be foolish?”

 

“Without a doubt,” his arm finds his way around the Shapur' shoulders, holding him close, “wishes can be powerful and meaningful though. Carrying us forward.”

 

“I'm not them,” the sentence takes him by surprise as fingers press against his own. The rings, akin to a timeless memorial, gently touched by Shapur and his inability to respect boundaries. He should tell him off without having the heart to do so, “I'm still there for you nonetheless. I'll become the strongest to carry you if I have to—Am I imitating Kaito again?” He whines, reverting to his old persona. Their voices are so different, same thing with the words and their meanings.

 

He cannot picture Shapur being driven mad by power.

At worst, he'll play around with it before getting bored.

 

“No, you sound like yourself.”

 

Pressing their heads against each other, Takatora takes a moment to enjoy this second chance at life.

Next week, he'll go back to Zawame.

 

To quit.

 


	3. Family

         Names are bothersome. How is he meant to pick one? Lately, Hirohisa feels distant, akin to burying the truth under whatever trash is available. Peco, however, is difficult to carry after everything. He solves the problem by accepting whatever name people use. It's not as if he had a lot of friends left. The day Zack stops texting, probably done with his silence, it feels like a betrayal on both sides.

He has always been quick to put the blame on others for his own weakness, hm.

Bringing Micchi (Mitsuzane sounds so boring) along for work sounds like a disaster. He does it anyway. Intimidation fits the other, not that he intends on letting him use such skill if they can't avoid it. The field trip goes well the first time. The second not so much. Some enemies won't back down, no matter how they can prove their wrong deeds.

 

“You kids shouldn't meddle in grown-up affairs!” The man snaps at them, surrounded by followers ready to get punched in his name.

 

(Peco loathes that.

How they call them children when they have faced the end of the world.)

 

Before he can reply, taunts already forming on his tongue, the guy steps forward.

Micchi does the same.

 

The scene turns into shit in the blink of an eye. He is so done with everyone all at once, from Micchi and his new addiction to getting punched (it was getting better dammit) to the way he feels like hiding and screaming until everyone's gone.

They win that fight, could have been a loss for the injuries they bear once back at Peco's flat. He glares at his reflection in the mirror because it's not Zack or Kaito, not carrying any strength, only ugly patches of red spreading on his skin.

 

“You're out of band-aids.”

 

“Whose fault is that?!” His voice rises without a warning.

 

What are they anyway? Friends? Don't make him laugh, eating food and watching movies together isn't enough. At best, they tolerate each other, right? Without anything more than that.

 

Dark bangs are a constant reminder Micchi should get a haircut, and new clothes. Rather than wearing Peco's and pretending it's enough. That's not his. _Nothing is_!

 

Frustrated by this sudden outburst, he sits down on the cold floor of the bathroom, opening and closing his lighter until he can breathe once more. With a soft humming sound, his nemesis lowers himself by his side. A firm hand removes his sole coping mechanism from his grasp.

Funnily, Peco lacks the strength to get it back. He groans instead, closing his eyes.

 

“What happened to your wrist and hand?”

 

“Pissed off the wrong person. I'm really good at that,” it's a clear insult. Enough for him to sense Micchi flinching.

 

“It's a talent we share then.” Laughable how true this statement is.

 

“Fire—I can control it, somehow. Decide where the flames go and what they destroy.”

 

“Can you?”

 

Flames are dangerous, prone to turn into a blaze. Surely, Micchi knows that. Knees against his chest, eyes still closed, Hirohisa presses the back of his head against the wall.

 

“Nah, I just pretend. Like you and your stupid fights. I thought you were done with them?”

 

“Hard to put an end to this nonsense.”

 

“Because you saw your brother?”

 

Touchy topic.

Responsibilities can either be accepted or ran away from. The latter is often cowardly, not making much sense for the ones left behind without an explanation. Peco is talented at understanding actions and consequences, albeit he doesn't care much about those. He isn't the one who wakes up from endless time loops, choking for breath with his own hands around his neck. Mitsuzane is the definition of disaster, stepping back as soon as he tries to go forward.

Still stuck in the past and mistakes he made when he was sixteen.

 

Inhaling sharply by his side, the youngest needs a moment to unfold his thoughts.

Peco doesn't allow him to let anything out, blurting out the first thing coming to his mind instead.

 

“I'm not mad at you any longer, I'm not sure you— noticed.”

 

The invasion has never left nightmares for him, as the fact he's a heavy sleepy makes quite difficult for Peco to recall anything happening in his dreams. Or if he even has those. Resentment used to be there, tucked in a part of his heart until he grew to blame Micchi for everything wrong. That was easy. Still is, not that he wants to put the blame on others forever. It would be unfair considering he was honestly useless back then.

Ah, comfort is far from an equal exchange.

Dragging himself down won't get Micchi higher, and vice-versa.

 

“At some point after he woke up, my brother and I got along, in our own convoluted way. Until we drifted apart, for his safety or mine, I wouldn't be able to tell. Here I am, at the end of the world, meeting him once more.”

 

The lighter is snatched away before Mitsuzane is able to use it. Peco has shared everything with the world already, flames can remain his a little longer. Back then, would have they been practical? Or another way for him to crash down?

 

“Is it bad? You're both trying to figure out who you are. There is no reason for you to run into his arms or anything, just go on with your life. He'll do the same and one day you might dance together, Micchan.”

 

The nickname is met with indignation to Peco's joy.

This way, focus will shift to that detail rather than allowing the other to overthink everything once more. What they crave, this unhealthy desire for freedom and power, it might get the best of them if they don't pay attention. Fighting for a twisted version of justice in exchange for money is weak Kaito would say.

Except Kaito is dead.

 

( _He won't come back_.)

 

“Dancing feels so distant to me.”

 

“Hm, I'm sure we could remember,” grabbing Micchi's wrist, he gets them back on their feet. Obviously, they are not going to dance in the bathroom. They might get back to it too. Who gives a damn if they do? Hirohisa does not, “we don't have to.”

 

 

        Hanging together turns into a routine Mitsuzane has no problem with. Jobs turn sparse right as he joins, or rather forms a duo with his old victim. Hirohisa keeps on switching his code of conduct, adding rules only to throw them aside the following day. He follows, a little dizzy, until the other finds the balance he was seeking. Rather than hiding in the shadows, they create a website (a premade one they argue about for two hours), listing what could be done. Exceptions are a common affair leading them into flirting with the law again.

 

A part of Micchi finds it thrilling.

 

He'll never be Ryugen again. The sengoku driver is locked away in a drawer when they move into a bigger flat. Not by much, but at least they have a small balcony and a potted plant. Peco insists on calling it Mai, a pretext to ensure Micchi won't murder this one indirectly.

A reminder to move forward. It's a mean gesture at the same time, to show how anger remains hidden in a side of his mind _. Not mad any longer_ doesn't mean _you're forgiven._

As a retribution, Peco discovers his old bolo tie tangled in the bathroom mirror one morning.

 

(They carry little kindness in their hearts.

That's fine.)

 

 

        The first time they hear their new title, the young men blink in sync. Detectives, the teenager insists, handing them money for figuring out where her sister ran away months prior. Better than assassin or cheater. It has a nice ring to it. No more skewed priorities filled with revenge against one self or the world as a whole. The word grows on them, to the point they write it on the website, alongside their names.

 

Peco and Micchi.

No last names.

 

The past can go fuck itself for all they care by that point. The five stages of acceptance have been visited enough for the two to move to something else. Living is a noble goal, one they will struggle with for a while without a doubt.

 

“Was there a reason for you to put your name first?”

 

“I'm one year older than you.”

 

“I'm taller,” by that point, Micchi is merely humoring his rival, adding a fake sigh to ensure an even bigger reaction.

 

“Bastard!”

 

Elbowing him in the ribs is an acceptable punishment. Micchi pretends to be mortally wounded, laying dramatically on the bed.

 

“I'm this close to pushing you on the ground.”

 

“You couldn— No don't!”

 

Tangled limbs on the floor, they burst out laughing. Hard to believe the youngest wakes up with tears running down his face in the middle of the night, blindly reaching for anything to remind him he's alive. Peco could sleep through the end of the world but waking up with Micchi against his chest isn't a bother at all.

 

“Fellow detective, should we solve the case of your cuteness?”

 

“Urg, Hirohisa.”

 

“What, it's super romantic!”

 

They are fine.

 

        Royalty grows at its own peace. There is no official competition nor ranking, leaving them unsure of where they are going for a while. The crowds expands though. New people each time they dance together. Takatora has a lifetime to fill with happier memories. Ones which doesn't include dead friends and citizens he couldn't shield from them. The rings remain on his hand, although they start to feel lighter once he goes back to announce his retirement. Greed is the sole motivator of most people who could succeed to him, that's why he appoints a council in his name. Some politicians, outnumbered by ex-armored riders and people who truly care. Obviously, he checks how they are doing from time to time, without being forced to have a word in any of what they are doing.

Some mornings, only thoughts of failure linger in his mind. Until Shapur wakes up, filling the day with little reminders of what's good. Therapy is putting them back together, bit by bit. Using what's left of his money to live sounds wrong until he remembers he has been working for his family since his teenage years. Even dead people need to be held accountable for their crimes.

He opens an investigation on what will be a scandal, tarnishing a family name he can't barely stand any longer. There isn't much remorse in his heart as he sends the long email, filled with documents, to the police department.

 

“Have you heard,” Shapur's asks, pushing the laptop aside like a cat would to get his full attention, “there is a new dance team going to debut today.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Their name's Kings!” That's why the younger male is pouting, for sure. It could be a coincidence, for teams to have similar names. Although it's unlikely. “They are challenging us, I tell you.”

 

Fingers trace the shape of the lips, earning a kiss against them in return.

 

“Then, shall we show them what we have got?”

 

The surprise is minimal, as the familiar boys greet them in their matching black outfits with a crown sewed on the back. A simple style, certainly not as reached as theirs. Takatora takes off his sunglasses with one hand, staring at his brother standing in front of them.

 

“Mitsuzane.”

 

“Brother.”

 

“Future brother-in-law,” the second adds without blinking.

 

Takatora wonders if they wish to shake his confidence before dancing against each other for this friendly event, or if the brat is serious with his smug grin and hand on his hips.

 

_Youngsters._

 

“Future brothers-in-law,” Shapur corrects while holding his boyfriend's hand, proud of the way the kids are caught out of balance in return.

 

“What are you say—”

 

“Is Kings going to forfeit? You look pale.”

 

“As if! Bring it on, old men!”

 

 

        Stepping back in Zawame City is an experience. No trace of the tragedy is left, beyond a couple of commemorative monuments people barely look at any longer. Peco doesn't have the luxury to glare at them, busy rushing to the hospital. They called him on the day where Shura woke up after ten months fighting for his life. It's not a miracle, as none of them believes in them nowadays. Still amazing though. Especially as the man manages to insult him after three steps inside the room.

There will be long lasting effects, obviously. It doesn't matter as much as Shura's hand feeling warm in his own (and the mere fact he is allowed to hold it without getting punched).

 

“What did I miss?” The voice is raspy, eyes struggling to say open, and Peco squeezes a little harder than he should. “Heard you paid for my medical stuff, moron.”

 

“Yeah, I'm so glad I helped keeping you alive, especially with your warm welcome.”

 

“Little shit.”

 

Peco sits on the edge of the bed, legs dangling in the air.

 

“I have a lot to tell you, it's going to take forever.”

 

“I can't really move right now, so spill it out.”

 

It takes him weeks of visits before Shura has heard the full story. The oldest struggles to figure out how his body is meant to work for now, which means more medical bills. But this time, he asks Micchi and his brother for help, rather than carrying this weight alone.

The hardest part is knocking on his sister's door after all this time, getting crushed into a warm hug rather than getting screamed at. He has missed her more than he'd like to admit. He does it nonetheless, not wanting to get stuck in believing himself to be better off on his own.

 

 

        Shapur insists to organize a dance competition in Zawame for plenty of reasons. Many have to do with him showing off his sewing skills. He has been working hard on those! More seriously, it can only help his lover to move past what happened. This time, they are there are themselves, rather than shadows of other people. He takes his time to stroll through every street, introducing himself as 'Shapur' rather 'Not Kaito'. That's harsh, to do this to people who cared so much about the man (although they weren't that many). Shapur has to exist too, rather than being no more than a fake or a replacement. He won't stop dying his hair and baking, because these are part of him.

When Royalty climbs on stage with its four members (the honorary one in his wheelchair staring from the crowd), there is only silence at first. No shout or encouragement. Until Baron, the new reformed team lead by Zack, joins them. After all, aren't they meant to be rivals now?

 

“So, I've heard you're new in town, hm?” He teases, his gaze ending on Peco.

 

They talk sometimes, a little. Step by step to rebuild something.

 

“We came all the way from our place to kick your ass, yeah,” the shortest steps forward, mischievous expression on his face.

 

“Sounds like a big trip for losing at the end.”

 

They don't truly have a leader, couldn't think of one when they were asked to register. Thus, they ended playing rock-paper-scissors to pick, because it felt fair. Shapur isn't certain he is the most fit for the role, but hey they can switch next time.

Holding a hand out, he waits for Zack to shake it, wondering what will happen if the gesture is rejected. The grip is strong instead, calloused fingers not letting go as their hands are lifted towards the sky while the crowds erupts in cheers.

 

This time, they won't lose.

 

  

         The detective agency doubles as their training room, which means it's a constant mess. Mitsuzane enjoys to have his corner as organized as possible, old photographs of Gaim on the wall behind him and the most comfortable chair. Working alongside his brother continues to be a challenge on bad days. They can tolerate each other nonetheless, just as they dance together without any problem. After being invited to join Royalty, Peco decided that welcoming them to their little business was only fair.

It probably was, since the older men did not have a job. Yet, Micchi is still slightly mad. On the bright side, Shapur brings fresh cakes twice per week, sometimes even homemade pudding, and he always had a sweet tooth.

 

“If the client is stupid, can we just tell them to go seek service elsewhere?”

 

“No, Shura,” he mumbles from his desk, staring at the never-ending list of boring requests, “you endure it like we all do.”

 

The man is there sometimes, living at the private clinic Takatora has accepted to pay for not far away, confiscating Peco's lighter (they still have much to fix) and complaining about physical therapy and his lost muscular mass. If they listened to his whims, he would train way beyond what's allowed by doctors. A chance he has four new friends who care so much about him, right?

Now if that guy could stop eating half of Shapur's cakes, it would be more convenient.

 

“Micchaaaan,” arms wraps around his shoulders from behind.

 

“Peco. I'm not doing your work for you again.”

 

“That's a shame, truly. I had so much to give you in return, such as cooking for you tonight. Sooo?”

 

“Still no.”

 

What an idiot, he tells himself, smile spreading on his lips.


End file.
